That Raccoon Life

A few of my years attending UC Berkeley for undergrad was spent in a house on Dwight Way.  I remember my roommates and I talking about the new nuisance on the block:  Raccoons!  While adorable in children’s storybooks, far from adorable when stumbling upon them in real life.

One of my housemates came home reporting another raccoon sighting:  “Eww, the guys across the street at Americana said that at night, they caught a FAMILY of raccoons going for a night swim!  Can you imagine?  So gross!”

As I tried to fall asleep that night, visions of the raccoon family took hold of me.  As much as I was anti-raccoon, the vivid image of the family going for a swim captured my heart.  Not gross at all.

Were the raccoon parents immigrants?  What was their story?  When did the parents get together?  The dad must have told his buddies, proudly, that he can’t go foraging with them that night because he was going to take his family swimming.  The kids were probably excited all day for their moonlit swim.

I pictured the dad looking at a map for the best swim holes Berkeley had to offer, researching how to get there and weighing the pros and cons between Clark Kerr pool and the more humble pool at Americana apartments.

I imagined the mom making some kimbahb and packing some trash for their midnight excursion.  The kids were not helpful but their excitement was contagious.  When the coast was clear and the loud humans were off to bed, the dad must have let out a high pitched whistle with his black lips and leathery black fingers,  waving one bandit hand, “It’s time.  Dive on in, guys!”

For some reason, this raccoon family I had not even encountered for myself during my college days, left an imprint in my brain.  I especially pictured the leader of the pack, the family-oriented Dad, creating some merriment for his brood.

Yesterday, despite the cold, hail, rain, and slushy Slurpee streets of NYC, Kevin and I were determined to go for a swim together.  His gym was offering two hours of Family Fun time where we could all go swimming as part of his membership.  This would entail some planning in order to make it in time.

Pack our swim stuff the night before, to take on the E train into Midtown.

Attend church.  Leave stuff in car for easier transport to subway.

Buy empanadas for speedy lunch on the run.

Drop off car in our lot.  Confirm with gym that their pool is open.  Take swim stuff and position onto Ellis’ stroller and have him sit in stroller so our massive belongings don’t tip over.

Walk to subway stop without slipping.  Especially Mommy and her Belly.

Wait for Sunday E train and remind boys to stay in the middle of the platform.

Hop on train.  Grab seats as they become available.  Kevin scarf down a few empanadas he could not eat while driving us home.

Pop out of train and maneuver umbrellas.  Walk to gym as more freezing rain pours down.

Laugh at how we really must like adventures and wonder if others would even bother to do this for a free family swim or just say, “Haiiiill nah!”

Sign waivers, change into swimsuits and meet at the pool.

Kevin told me to get my lap swim on while he frolicked with the kids in the loafer lane.  The kids were beaming.  Their wet seal heads bobbed up and down.  Daddy took them on rides on his back.

As I swam towards them, my eyes teared up behind my goggles.  They looked…not unlike…the raccoon family of my college imaginings.  I hadn’t thought about that raccoon family in years but there they were, every bit as tight as I had imagined.  Turns out that the dad had a gym membership!



post swim foraging


post swim ride home – feeling relaxed and happy and hungry





Flipping the Script on Envy

As I’ve shared before, I am euphoric when pregnant.  I imagine soundtracks playing as I subway to work or walk in the frozen tundra to pick up the chil’ren:

Blessed Be Your Name
In the land that is plentiful
Where Your streams of abundance flow
Blessed Be Your name
Blessed Be Your name
When I’m found in the desert place
Though I walk through the wilderness
Blessed Be Your name

I feel like I won the lotto to be able to experience this all over again even with a growing, peach-fuzzy stomach,

linea negra faint black line down my belly,

gagging while brushing teeth,

burping on the drive to church and being shocked by more than a burp,

and popping Tums for dessert night after night.

However, I am still a three-dimensional human being and find myself struggling with envy even during this abundant season of verdant pastures.

Pastor Rankin Wilbourne once shared that he would never be envious of Kobe Bryant’s basketball skills.  He is more susceptible to becoming envious of another pastor whose church is flourishing in a way his church is not.  I get that.

I’m not envious of most things because I couldn’t care less.  You thinner than me?  Congrats!  So are many.  I don’t care.  I want to eat more empanadas.

You have a great science mind while I was happy to earn my “B” in AP Bio?  Cool – maybe you can drop science on my kids one day while I watch Wendy Williams.

You have a fat salary but have to work crazy hours?  That’s great that you have that drive but for me, for now, no thanks.

However, there are wounds I carry and if you are blessed in those areas, I feel the wounds getting picked at again, or at least my armpits getting sweaty.  Currently, we are blessed enough to have four living grandparents for our children.  But all four of them are not geographically available and three of them are not available in the way I yearn for.  I also don’t have a dad who can pour into my life.  THESE ARE SOME RAW WOUNDS.

As abundantly blessed as I am, when I see doting grandparents, I tear up.  When I see my friends get affirmed by their dads even at our mature ages, I cry.  (Hell, I’m crying now, typing this).

I want my kids to know and FEEL that other than their loving but imperfect Dad and affectionate but limited Mom who still hates to cook, there are a couple others who love them to pieces and would sacrifice for them, not just connect on the phone once in a blue moon.

But I don’t stay sad because my default emotion is anger.  I spew out and release my “Fuck Yous.”  I don’t actually hate on my friends with blessings in this area because they handle their blessings with gratitude and grace, but when an innocent stranger posted on a FB Mom group about how both sets of grandparents watch her kids, NEVER LEAVING HER ALONE WITH THEM, and how one of them dared to ask for carseats for their own car so that they can go on adventures with their grandchildren, I had to bite my tongue because I want to say, “FUCK YOU VERY MUCH YOU FUCKING PRINCESS!”

Everything is relative.  I KNOW THIS IN MY HEAD but my heart ain’t feelin’ it at times.

Someone could very well be thinking the same of me as Kevin does the heavy lifting in our household.  In that way, I am pampered and ever grateful.  But he also does this heavy lifting partially because he knows I have NO ONE ELSE and that it grieves his emotional wife.  People have advised that I look for friends or “spiritual family” to lean on but I don’t dare lean on non-relatives when I know their plates are full, too.  And frankly, friends have their own extended REAL families.

I also think about my friends and what they must struggle with.  Friends who have suffered baby losses while they see pregnants all around.  Friends whose kids have received diagnoses while they see neurotypical kids going about their regular school schedules.  Friends who pray for a spouse.  Friends who pray for healing of their illnesses.  Friends who beg God for a baby.

HOW DO I/THEY FIND PEACE in our respective areas of need!?  I know one solution is to stay in our own lanes and be grateful for everything we do have.  But I need something more because in this real world, we don’t live in a bubble and we can’t help but notice each others’ lanes.

I want to grapple with envy in a different way.  I don’t wanna become Bitter Miss Fuck You or only want to play with people who have my exact same struggles.  I will protect and distance myself from folks who subconsciously enjoy being the object of my envy because they feel elevated from my raw confessions that I wish I had what they have.

Lord, give me tools to flip the script on envy.  I know that it is not a single battle but a life-long journey but mature me in this area and teach me to deal with this in a healthy manner, and not resort to anger.  Please guide me when the going gets tough and I hear Satan whisper in my ear, “Bet you wouldn’t be struggling if you had grandparents around like so many of your friends!”

I will hold you to this verse I love for 2017 – please spring forth a new thing within me:

Isaiah 43: 19 (NIV):  See I am doing a new thing!  Now it springs up; do you not perceive it?  I am making a way in the wilderness and streams in the wasteland.

(photos of my blessings below)



Me being held by my beautiful Mama Love, who may be geographically unavailable but emotionally available and still wrestles with her grandchildren because it makes them squeal

Every Good and Perfect Gift

I don’t know how to talk about what is going on in our country right now so I will only talk about my own small world.  For now, I only have to visit my o.b. monthly.  While waiting to be seen by my very popular doctor this past week, I reminisced about how each pregnancy experience was different in many ways, but also same in the sheer awe and gratitude I always bask in.



I kept forgetting to take these time capsule pics so I did two in a row this week.

For MLK, my first, I was working.  Everything was new.  No other children.  I would ask friends on FB what the first flutter felt like and what exactly I was supposed to do while waiting for baby to arrive.

For EZ, my second, I was a full-time at-home mama.  I was busy taking M to the playground and on playdates.  I treasured these moments where M and I got to be attached at the hip, when he was my “OCUO,” Only Child Until October.

I realize now how fun that second pregnancy was as so many of the mama friends in my ‘hood were blessed enough to be expecting at the same time.  It was almost hard to keep track of who was due when.  “Who got next!?”  From spring babies to blizzard babies.  Newborns meeting first friends and mamas doing drive-bys on each other to drop off a little sustenance.

With this Bonus Belly Baby, I only work part-time so I definitely have pockets of quiet when the boys are at school.  To feel the kicks and to try to imagine what it’s going to be like when we meet Baby and become a family of five.

I do miss those days when we were all knocked up together as I feel like the Lone Pregnant these days and wouldn’t mind a few Preg Buddies.

As I left my doctor’s office, I saw that there was a Goodwill store on the same block.  I wondered, “Could there be a cute hat for me in there?  Nah, I’m tired.  I’m carrying too much stuff.  I gotta hop back on the train and eat something before picking up the boys.”  Then  I got this strong feeling, “GO IN.  GET YOUR HAT.”  I came out with a hand-knit, bright turquoise hat for $2 after a nice chat with a young employee who is also pregnant.  I smile to myself about how much older I am than her and I remind her to put her feet up and drink lots of water.

The last strong feeling I got was when we were at Storm King, the day before I turned 40 and the day before I found out officially that I was expecting our third baby.

When I got to luxuriate in that solitary shuttle ride as a Storm Queen, I gazed up at the sculptures and the trees and asked God, “Lord, it’s me again and yes I am obsessively asking.  Could I actually be pregnant?  **Even though I just got my period!?**”  I felt a strong answer from within:  “You are expecting.  You will be back here with your baby.  Why you ackin’ so surprised?”  I think He even said the sex of the baby but I didn’t write down this memory fast enough so I don’t wanna make up stuff.

With small gifts (Goodwill hat) and grand gestures (Bonus Baby), He has gifted me so much lately so I can’t help but share these mundane praise reports on repeat.  Beyonce-like photo shoot up next (Psyche!).



spotted this beauty after my doc visit


the view I enjoyed as I went in for my check-up

Slayed by a Lion While Ringing in Year of the Rooster

Even with ten minutes left before showtime, by the time Kevin was able to join me after finding parking blocks away, the theater was packed with senior citizens on this Saturday night.  They seemed to have come together on a fieldtrip.  It was quite adorable but we had to grab whatever seats were left.

Kevin whispered to me, “Guh sahram dul ‘Four Seasons’ gahteh.”

“Hey, why don’t you just say it all in English as you clearly say the operative words in English?”  (He was comparing the seniors to the younger seniors in a movie called “Four Seasons” with Alan Alda, about folks vacationing together regularly in their twilight years).

We were out for a rare date night.  We had rushed to pick our movie.  Process of elimination:  NOT “La La Land” because 70 percent chance that I would walk out (I can’t do musicals as I start picking at my nails as they break out into song after song.  Plus, I heard this musical was set in my hometown of LA, minus people of color.)

NOT “Rogue One” because Kevin had already watched it by himself during the holidays after he hit up Toys R Us one late night.  Plus I don’t watch sci-fi.

We considered “Patriots Day” (I will watch almost any Mark Wahlberg flick), “Split,” and “Lion.”  “Split” looked too scary and Koreans warn against watching anything scary while pregnant so like a good Korean, I chose to abstain.  I skimmed what “Lion” was about and knew this was It.  An Indian boy adopted by Australian parents who goes searching for his biological family.  Probably about issues of identity as hyphenated citizen and adoptee.

As soon as the movie started, I knew I was in trouble.  The full Korean warning also tells us pregnants to avoid attending funerals or other lugubrious affairs as the baby will absorb all your sadness and mourning.

Plot unfolds in small town of India, far from Calcutta.  A ten year old and his little brother, around age five, steal coal from atop trains in order to buy milk for their impoverished family.  They do this cheerily because they have each other.  I love them so much.

Oh, and the mom has three children.  GULP.

The brotherly dynamics and the little brother’s eyes and mannerisms already defy the Korean advisory.  I squeeze Kevin’s arm and whisper, “Yo, I can’t do this.”  He is already wiping away his own tears about ten minutes in.

Heartbreaking scene after scene with little brother completely lost with no way to find home or the big brother he idolizes.

I take deep breaths.  I recall the two other instances I was too affected from watching something:

  1.  “Ga eul dong hwa,” a Korean mini series from year 2000.  I wasn’t well for approximately ten days after finishing the series.
  2. “Philomena” – Completely wrecked after viewing this film in Sherman Oaks, CA, year 2013.

“Pssst…Where Dev Patel at?  I thought this was going to be grown-ass Dev Patel searching for his roots while growing up in Australia thinking he just as White as his parents.  Kevin, I need this to hurry up and jump to Australia already.  I can’t take this.”

I go from fanning myself to hiding under my coat-blanket.  I’m grateful when my bladder asks me to take it for a walk.  In the restroom, I consider staying there to protect myself from getting more gutted in the theater.  I walk back slowly, tempted to say to the employees behind the popcorn stand, “Please help me.  I’m from Lion, in Theatre 2.  I can’t stomach the sadness.  The boy looks like my second son but less plush.”

I’m hoping I missed more scenes and that the boy has grown up into Grown Dev Patel of Australia but damn it, the gorgeous little boy has yet to meet his adoptive parents.  I pray for protection of my heart.

I am a crier in real life but for movies, I do this weird thing where I am too macho to release any tears.  I don’t think I cried during “Manchester by the Sea” but I had also braced myself for that one.  This one, I hadn’t braced myself and had no idea what level of wrenching my heart was going to endure.

I couldn’t put up my walls and I had tears streaming down my face as I used my cowl neck to wipe my face.  I had tears running down my neck and collarbone.  Kevin and the senior citizens were weeping, a symphony of sniffles.


We leave the theater for a quick bite to eat before sitter curfew.  We look like we were coming from a funeral.  Kevin laughs at me – “Whoa, you really cried this time!”

“Don’t.  Just don’t.”

“No, you look pretty!  But your face looks all gaunt hahahhaa.  You look older, Jihee-yah.”

We come home and I immediately curl into Ellis’ bed where I find a castaway (Micah from the top bunk).  Ellis is moving so much in his sleep that he looks like he is going to fall off, so I hoist him into my arms and into our bed.

Kevin returns from taking our sitter home and asks, “What the?” when he finds E snoozing away in our bed.

“Please.  You know you want it, too,” as we caress his cheeks and think about Little Dev Patel.

The next morning, I tell Micah a bit about the movie as I beg him for extra hugs.  He looks at me and advises, “Just forget about the movie, ok?  Think about something else.”

As if.

I don’t know how our children were born into a comfy American life where we forget to eat what’s in our fridges and sleep in warm beds while other children aren’t afforded the same luxuries.  I will never just care about our own.

I just hope they add conspicuous Emotional Advisories on movie synopses because getting skurred during “Split” would have been nothing compared to this.  I wonder if there is a viewer support group that the senior citizens host.img_2054




Act Like You Been Here Before (Nope!)

Today, Kevin and I had the privilege of getting a peek at our Belly Baby at the 20 week anatomy scan.  After dropping off the boys at school, we made it to our appointment in Manhattan.

Last time, at the early anatomy scan, our sonographer was cold and quiet, and a bit intimidating, our first experience with such a personality at this hospital.  So last night I prayed not only for a healthy scan, but for a bubbly sonographer who would talk us through everything and allow us to feel the excitement of the moment.  The Lord provided a Chinese sonographer who beamed as soon as she saw our Asian mugs walk towards her, and sprinkled our appointment with, “…in our culture…”  (I was thinking, “Yessss.  In OUR culture, you know sonographers hook up they patients with a GANG of photos from the anatomy scan, right!?”)

Even though this is our third baby, the wonder of it all remains.  I bet it’s the same for my friends who have six kids or my paternal grandma who had nine sons (though way back when sonograms would have seemed like voodoo magic).  Seeing the baby’s flickering heart, brain, abdomen, nose and lips, big ol’ femurs kicking and stretching, and even yawning?!  Act like I been here before?!  NOPE!  I won’t act like I been here before, because I haven’t been HERE befo’!  NOT for this particular baby, this particular miracle.

Flashbacks to previous appointments at my doctor’s office when the o.b. appointments had turned into gyno appointments.  I remember walking towards the subway on my usual route home, passing by Alice’s Tea Cup, popping in for a couple scones to bring back home to the boys (or not).  Stopping by the Korean-owned bodega for an egg and cheese breakfast samich.

I remember thinking as I left the crowded waiting room, “It just makes no practical kind of sense but Lord, this feels weird to come in and get my lady parts checked out without having a baby in my baby house.  I don’t think I can be done yet.  Too final.  I need one more resident in there.  Lord, please make sense of this.  Either stomp out this desire that has been consuming me for the past couple years or just make it clear that You want to bless us with another.”

As I love to mention, He officially gifted me with this baby on the morning of my 40th birthday.  I hope to keep reminding myself of our story as even more of my hair turns grey as if someone spilled chalk as they walked past my head.  To recall this amazing journey during those sleepless nights and nonstop feedings that I conveniently cannot recall right now.  And while I walk over to Biggest Brother with the baby on my engorged teat, making sure he is completing his homework instead of teasing Middle Brother.

I loved this quote during the couple years I surveyed everybody about how they just knew they were done having kids:

“Be patient toward all that is unsolved in your heart and try to love the questions themselves, like locked rooms and like books that are now written in a very foreign tongue. Do not now seek the answers, which cannot be given you because you would not be able to live them. And the point is, to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps you will then gradually, without noticing it, live along some distant day into the answer.” – Rainer Maria Rilke

E from Writers’ Group just shared the poem below with our group this past Sunday and it was perfect for today, as I walked from the hospital to the subway, feeling my baby kick, and the cold wind slapping me in the face.  Thank You, Lord, for allowing me to do this all over again.

The Place Where You Are Now

by Hafiz

This place where you are right now
God circled on a map for you.

Wherever your eyes and arms and heart can move
Against the earth and the sky,
The Beloved has bowed there –

Our Beloved has bowed there knowing
You were coming…






Searching for our Next Home on MLK Jr. Day 2017

“Hey, Micah, tomorrow is your special day!” Ellis and I joked as MLK Jr. Monday approached.  Micah sheepishly answered, “No, Mommy, I’m only named after him.  So it’s not really MY day.”

MLK Jr. Day is a special day for our family.  We named our firstborn “MLK” as we couldn’t think of anyone else we both wanted to pay homage to.  (No, Kevin, we will NOT be naming any of our kids after your William Martin Joel.)

Though Ellis was actually named after Ellis Island, after Kevin had stumbled upon the cool-named baseball player “Ellis Valentine” while catching up on his Sports Illustrated, our Ellis was conceived on MLK Jr. Day 2012.

This year, on MLK Jr. Monday, we spent the afternoon starting the search for our next home, exploring houses in a local suburb after a couple friends bought homes in the area.  We are not sure about Musts v. Wants,  other than urgently needing more space, commutes under an hour, affordable pricing, and good (not best) schools.

We rolled into town and some of the neighbors glanced over at us, just to see who was driving down their block.  My immediate response was, “Yo, I can’t do this.  Was our radio on too loud?  I feel like I need to bump some Tupac or Guantanamera.  Where my do-rag at?”  Kevin reminded me, “You’re not REALLY Black.”

I knew that these neighborly glances from their garage or while walking their dogs were most likely innocuous but this is the part of the home-search that I am not yet at peace with:  Can I do without people of color?  Is lack of diversity a deal-breaker?  If so, our options are even more limited for our budget.  I also still yearn for that California vibe where folks would just say “hello” to strangers but I’ve accepted that that’s just asking for too much.

Say that we find a home that meets most of our criteria BUT it’s located in a town that is 95% white.  Okay, now my heart is beating more rapidly as I type.  I don’t want my kids to be THE Asians in their class or school.  I don’t want to hear compliments about the Kim boys who are “just lovely, such good boys.”  I don’t want to become Borat while hanging out with White moms, explaining, “In my count-trrrryy, we have postpartum ritual we like to call…”

I don’t want to feel as Other as MLK Jr. and Coretta, fighting the good fight, while raising up our family in a homogeneous community, whether it be all White or all Chinese.  (And I know that with our Model Minority Mugs, we are hardly fighting the same prejudices as MLK Jr. and Coretta with the Good Name).  Friends have brought up good points:  that we can start the trend, and more Asians and other people of color will migrate soon enough, especially if there are good schools around.  “If you build it, they will come.”

I’ve had the good fortune of attending only diverse schools, from the moment we immigrated to Los Angeles when I was couple months shy of turning five.  I started kindergarden and stayed silent for a year because I didn’t want to make a fool of myself, sputtering out pitiful, laughable Ingrish.  It was the first time I had seen people with light hair and blue eyes and it was a lot to process.  My first teacher was an older woman whose light hair was turning blue so there were so many new colors I needed to digest, after only seeing Black hair and nearly Black eyes back in Seoul.

Even during my silent year, I did speak to Korean classmates, working out a system where I’d do their math and they’d help me out with Ingrish.  I even developed my first crush on a Filippino boy named Carlos without really speaking to him directly.  (And Kevin IS sporting Bruno Mars’ hair lately).

Later, when my little brother and I were bussed from Koreatown to the boojie Laurel Canyon area to attend a gifted magnet school,  I did develop an inferiority complex as so many of our classmates were wealthy.  Even then, we still had so many classmates who were also children of immigrants, also getting bussed in.  This continued through college and graduate schools:  so much color all around.

Now, Kevin, on the other hand, totally had a different experience.  He was THE people of color in his graduating high school class.  When I attended his high school reunion in CT as his then-girlfriend or then-fiancé, I started twitching as we were THE people of color (plus one classmate’s husband who was also Asian and mistaken for Kevin).  While the classmates were getting they drinks on, one girl “complimented” Kevin:  “Don’t you worry, KK, you were as White as the rest of us.”

I don’t know where we will end up yet but I don’t know how to reconcile my urge to start rioting when I visit an all White community, even for a single afternoon visit to a children’s museum in CT or at a Billy Joel concert.  And now we in a Trump era…



Please lead us to a nice next home, Lord!

1.13.17 Friday the 13th Fragments

Here’s some more alliteration for you:  Currently fighting phlegm, a recurring symptom for all three of my pregnancies.  I don’t want to take Mucinex though I believe the doctor told me it was safe to take back in 2012.  I am constantly clearing my throat and no amount of hot red tea is helping.  I’m sick of hearing myself clear my throat.

This is not a Pollyanna addendum: Like I’ve mentioned before, no amount of phlegm choking me out, new skin tags on my neck this time ’round, slowly morphing into the shape of modest starter home, nausea even in this golden second trimester, and itchy sphincter can diminish my awe of this miracle of life.  I never ever forget that the REASON I feel so gross is because a sweet potato-sized human being is being created within me.

(And I know I said I want to avoid talking about Our Baby #3 Story in light of friends’ recent losses and pain but I realized that I can’t avoid talking about our current stage altogether especially when I have a free moment and a hankering to write.  My apologies.)

I’ve had a few funny reactions as I’ve started to share my news with co-workers:

  1.  “Yeah, I was noticing you were gaining weight but didn’t want to say anything.”  (I wish you had stuck to that brilliant “didn’t want to say anything” initial thought).
  2. “Yeah, I could tell.  If you didn’t speak up soon, I would have asked you, ‘Is everything ok, Jihee?  You having too many bagels there?'”
  3. As he was telling me about employee discounts:  “Oh, Jihee, there’s also a Weight Watchers discount!” (Thankfully, two female co-workers gave him the side-eye immediately and told him to hush).
  4. After I shared that we are very excited but also scared sometimes:  “How old are you?”  “Uh, yes, I will be an older mom.”  “Yes, that’s why I ask.  That’s the only part I could see as something to be scared about.”

People!  I know your intentions are not malicious but just think these things, don’t actually SAY them with that opening in your face!  I may be inviting some of these reactions as I feel too sheepish to only share the happy news.  I have this Joy Luck Club compulsion to add, “Oh, but it’s gonna be so hard!” so that it doesn’t seem like I’m bragging or naive.

Once, I remarked when Micah was an infant that he was getting so heavy it was hard for me to lift him with ease.  My mom told me (in Korean), “Don’t be saying that out loud.  It can be taken as bragging.  Back in the old days, people believed that your baby can get sick once you boasted about how good and fat he was getting.”  My parents also told me not to share happy things with people because it can make them want to yank you off your Cloud Nine.

I noticed that it’s very easy for me to share my struggles as that makes it easier to connect with people.  Once you share happy things, I fear that people might think, “Well, congrats, bitch!  La dee dah!”

So sharing happy thangs does not come naturally to me.  I want to reclaim this.  I am a Christian.  I don’t need to fear the evil eye.  I don’t want to fear sharing happy things so here it goes:

It’s going to be hard, and just as my co-worker commented, age will be a factor as we are objectively older and more worn out.  But as of now, on this Friday the 13th, we feel like we won the lottery for the third time.  And I can share this.